


consequences will never be the same again

by whiplash



Category: The Originals (TV)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Brother-Sister Relationships, Brotherhood, Canonical Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Crack Treated Seriously, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-02 07:33:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5239922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiplash/pseuds/whiplash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Klaus dun goofed and consequences will never be the same again. No, seriously. He pisses off a witch and bad things happens to his siblings. And then maybe he learns a lesson in the end. Possibly. Probably not though.</p><p>AKA the de-aged Mikaelson sibling story nobody ever asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

For the record, Klaus hates witches.

He has plenty of reasons, starting with his crackpot mother turning him and his siblings into creatures of the night and ending with his creepy aunt Dahlia trying to steal his infant daughter. Admittedly, he has since found himself growing quite fond of Freya but that’s truly a case of the exception confirming the rule. And, to be fair, this very morning when he’d woken to the stink of burning herbs and the drone of monotone chanting – and then all but tripped over Freya’s yoga mat on his way down to breakfast – he’d been all too happy to wish his older sister to hell with the rest of the Quarter’s witch community.

“Are you even listening to me?” his current witch problem asks, her voice high-pitched with disapproval. Klaus suddenly remember that he hates disapproving witches  _the most_. They remind him far too much of the previously mentioned crackpot mother.

“Sure,” he lies. “You’re upset with me for… reasons and now you’re out for revenge. Heard it all before, Glinda. My favorite part’s always what comes next. Blood, guts and glory. You provide the first two, then I get to bask in the latter.”

The witch takes a deep breath. It’s entirely possible that she’s counting to ten.

“I’ve tried to reason with you,” she then says, speaking through clenched teeth, “but you truly are blind to the suffering of others, Klaus Mikaelsson.”

“What can I say,” Klaus answers. Grinning as wide as he can manage, he adds: “Rough childhood.”

He intends for his flippancy to push her into taking action and reveal her plan. After all, she’s lured him into an empty warehouse in the middle of the night. Or, well, sort of lured him. Invited him, really, and he’d been too bored not to follow. And perhaps it's not quite night time as much as it’s … late afternoonish. Details though. The point is, there has to be a plan. There’s always a plan. Or perhaps a secret weapon. One of the two, for sure.

His plan misfires though. The witch’s frown deepens, sure, but rather than starting on her villain’s monologue she just crosses her arms over her (ample!) chest and frowns at him like he’s a puppy who just piddled on the floor.

“You use your childhood suffering as an excuse for hurting others,” she finally states.

“Yes,” he agrees, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

The witch smirks. And Klaus hasn’t been around for as long as he has without knowing to be wary as all fuck. Launching forward, intending to rip her throat out before she gets a chance to cast any spells, he remonstrates with himself for not killing her first and asking questions later. He could have tortured the plan (or the secret weapon, or whatever) out of one of her minions later. There’s bound to be minions, after all. There are always minions.

Before he gets to her there’s a dramatic flash of light – why did witches have be such  _drama queens_?! – and then he’s all alone in an empty warehouse. Making good use of his potty mouth Klaus proceeds to smash a few crystals, upturn a few jars of eyes of newt and then flip a heavy oak table for good measure.

It’s strangely soothing.

xxx

A few hours later he skulks home in the rain. He's found no minions. Not a single one.

People keep staring at him. At first he chalks it down to fear. If he looks half as righteously furious as he feels then he can’t really blame the walking, talking blood bags for trembling in fear. If anything, the response strikes him as appropriate and well-considered. Then he catches a glimpse of himself in a shop window and realizes that his leather jacket's coated with glittering dust. That fucking witch has made Klaus Mikaelson sparkle like that asshole vampire from those shit-fest movies.

Klaus suddenly decides that he needs a snack. Possibly two. And that couple gawking at him next to a conveniently located alleyway?

Yeah, they'll do just fine.

xxx

Hayley meets him at the door. That’s unusual. She looks harried and wide-eyed which, considering that she’s holding their red-faced, wet-eyed daughter, is not. (Motherhood, he’s found, does  _not_  suit her.) She doesn’t try to kill him with her eyes or push past him in her sudden urge to find a Klaus-free zone which is strange. In fact, she looks downright relieved to see him. And that… that’s really fucking alarming.

“Who died?” he asks, snatching Hope from her arms while (not so) secretly hoping that it’s Jackson. Maybe if Elijah gets laid again he’ll finally let go of that ridiculous grudge. Seriously. You compel one doe-eyed vamp to commit suicide in front of the man and he acts like Klaus killed his mother. Which, well, admittedly he’s also done. Twice. Ish. But only ever for the best of reasons.

“You’re gonna want to see this for yourself,” Hayley says. And, as Klaus doesn’t have anything better to do, he shrugs and follows, still not quite giving up on the hope that he’s about to find Jackson’s terribly mangled body.

C’mon, after the evening he’s had he deserves some happy news.

xxx

“This can’t be happening,” he hears himself say. He has a vague feeling that it’s not the first time that those words have tumbled out of his mouth in the past few minutes. Hayley’s impatient eye-roll confirms it, but whatever. Screw her. She probably screeched like a little girl when she stumbled across them. Ignoring her, Klaus turns to look at the couch.

There are three kids lined up in front of the television. The expressions on their little faces – eyes wide, mouths half-open – makes them look like half-wits. The one in the middle, with curly hair and bright eyes, doesn’t ring a bell. But the little dark-haired boy on the right looks familiar. And the girl on the left, with short blond hair and a snubby nose, the one who tears her attention away from the television screen and looks at him with bright and blue eyes…

He knows her. Of course he knows her. Klaus would know his little sister anywhere.

Looking back at it, Klaus realizes that he must have lost a bit of time. He’s vaguely aware of Hayley talking, her voice uncharacteristically kind. Something about trying to call him for hours. About Marcel speaking to Davina. About how, somehow, they’ll find a way to make it right and bring back his siblings.

“There’s no need to overreact, Klaus,” she claims and he just stares at her in disbelief. He’s come to accept that she was a treacherous, baby-stealing, brother-seducing she-wolf but up until now he’s always given her credit for having brains. It's clear now that he’s been gravely mistaken. Short of burning down the entire state, there’s very little that Klaus could do in response to this outrage which would count as an overreaction. He growls at her and Hope squirms unhappily in his arms. Hayley, being a terrible and selfish creature, takes that as an excuse to snatch her back even though Klaus is obviously the one most in need of holding his daughter. Their daughter. Whatever.

“A flash of light?” he finally says, his voice strangely high-pitched. He clears his throat, then tries again. “You said you saw a flash of light before they…?”

“De-aged?” Hayley suggests, grimacing as if the word actually tastes bad. Klaus wouldn’t know. He's never had a reason to use the word in a sentence. He's not even entirely sure that she didn't just make it up.

“And yeah,” she continues. “A big flash of light. Don’t suppose you know anything about it?”

_Fucking witches._

xx

The kids are dressed in t-shirts, their tiny legs sticking out underneath the hems. Rebekah’s legs are short and stubby with baby fat, Freya’s long and thin like a colt’s and poor Elijah seems to have gotten the short end of the stick. That’s to say that the poor kid’s both short and skinny. Klaus makes note of that so that he can mock his big brother for it later.

The three of them have a varying grasp of the English language. Rebekah and Elijah, born in the New World, seems to understand it whereas Freya's never been exposed to it. Hayley, of course, attempts to use that barrier as a way to stick Klaus with the kids.

It’s a pathetically obvious scheme to keep him from ‘overreacting’. As if re-enacting the Salem witch trials could truly be called an over-reaction to someone harming his siblings. The only reason he doesn’t rush out to give the covens of New Orleans a much needed history lesson is that Marcel hints that the witch -- or any other enemy of the Mikaelson family, for that matter -- might show up at the house.

“This size,” he says, gesturing towards Klaus' siblings, “they’re pretty snatchable. Pretty snackable too. Someone’s gonna have to keep them safe until the witch’s found.”

Marcel’s not stupid enough to actually try and tell Klaus what to do. But he clearly knows exactly which buttons to press to make it happen anyway. Klaus imagines that if he wasn’t so damned furious with, oh, just about  _everything_  he’d be impressed by his adopted son. Instead he punches a wall, sheds his glittery leather jacket and dusts off his old Norwegian.

He starts by compelling them. Which is not as easy as it sounds. Compelling children’s hard. Something to do with brain chemistry or speech development or something. Elijah and Camille had once had a long – and terribly tedious – discussion about it. Klaus had threatened to record it and sell it as a sleeping aid. Regardless, this time around it seems to work fairly well. They don’t cry for their mommy, at least, nor do they try and run away when he switches off the cartoons.

Out of the three he finds that only Freya’s fully verbal. She speaks fast though, words tumbling out of her mouth at a rate which makes Klaus’ head hurt. Rebekah has a lisp, something he remembers from her actual childhood only surely it hadn't been half as annoying the first time around. And, seriously adding to the mindfuck, it turns out that Elijah mumbles.

Klaus remembers mumbling once. Mikael had used it against him for weeks.  _Speak up, boy, or I’ll…_

“What a clusterfuck,” he mutters. In English, mind you.

xxx

“We need to pee,” Freya sing-songs, dragging Rebekah along with her.

Klaus has faced armies of vampires, Rebekah’s bed hair and even Elijah in a spring cleaning mood with less fear. He looks around him in despair, hoping against all hope for Hayley or Marcel to reappear out of the shadows. Hell, he’d even take Jackson. But, of course, he’s all alone.

“All right,” he says, his face aching as he forces a grin. “Come along then. Let me introduce you to the wonders of indoor plumbing. You too, Elijah. There’s no way I’m doing this twice.”

On the bright side it turns out that there won’t be any need to take these kids to Disneyland. Ever. Between flushing the toilet, leaving sticky fingerprints on the mirror and switching the light on and off they’ve got all the entertainment they need.

Feeling inspired by his row of victories Klaus decides to run them a bath.

xxx

“You left them alone in the bath,” Cami screeches, sounding inexplicably horrified.

“I needed a break,” Klaus explains. Realizing how whiny he sounds he takes a big gulp of scotch. That way when he speaks next his voice ought to come out appropriately low-pitched and scratchy. Always works like a charm. “They have tiny hands and huge eyes. It's creepy.”

For some reason he still sounds whiny. He frowns, his reflection in the window frowning back.

“You don’t leave toddlers alone in the bath,” Cami continues, as if she hasn't heard him at all. “They could  _drown_.”

“They’re not stupid. If one starts drowning, the others will make some noise and I’ll hear them,” he says, dismissing the issue. “Worst case scenario, I could always turn them. I imagine they’d strike terror in the bravest of hearts.”

His voice sounds glib and he grins wide, even though she can’t see him. She continues to berate him and he allows her voice to wash over him, mentioning nothing about how they sure as hell have managed to strike terror in his.

xxx

They don’t drown. They do however get water everywhere. Absolutely fucking everywhere.

Mopping up the worst with a wet towel he sorta-almost-mostly regrets eating the maid. Admittedly he’d assumed that Elijah would find a new one before it became an issue but, well, everyone knows what happens when you assume.

A witch ends up transforming your siblings into toddlers.

xxx

As a general rule, Klaus doesn’t cook. When he’s in the mood to eat he goes to a restaurant, compels a chef to cook in or sends a minion out for take-out. He still remembers how to skin and roast a rabbit over an open fire, of course, but he’ll admit (to himself, if nobody else) that he finds kitchen appliances unnecessarily confusing and intimidatingly shiny.

Still, he has three hungry siblings staring up at him with needy, hopeful eyes, which leaves him with little choice but to conquer the fuck out of the toaster. A thousand years of existence has taught him to play to his strengths so, mindful of the fact that he performs best with an audience, he herds the ankle biters into the kitchen.

It’s important to set the scene first so he makes sure to inform them about electricity. And the dangers of electricity. Especially the dangers of electricity. When he plugs in the toaster Rebekah makes a terrified noise and clings to Freya’s arm. Three pair of wide eyes follow him, their little bodies tense and their hearts hammering loud enough to drown out the grumbling of their bellies.

Perhaps a better man would feel guilty. Klaus doesn’t though. Instead he revels in his siblings complete attention, preening happily at the admiring looks he receives when he produces three pieces of, only slightly singed, toast. He finds butter in the fridge and spreads on a thick layer on each piece. It melts all over their hands which maybe twenty-first century children would find bothersome. Viking children however just blissfully lick their hands clean, chasing the crumbs over the table with wet fingers.

Klaus snaps a few photos with his phone. For reasons. Blackmail reasons, mainly.

“Is there more?” Freya asks, eyeing the toaster speculatively. She still looks hungry and Klaus remembers, with a squirmy and uncomfortable feeling, what it was like to be little and hungry.

There’s a fruit basket next to the coffee machine and he lobs a few juicy looking apples at their heads. Freya, quick and sharp-eyed, catches hers. Rebekah’s apple bounces off her head, producing huge crocodile tears which dry as soon as she bites into the apple. Elijah’s rolls off the table, down on the floor. He tenses and stares at Klaus for the longest time, as if waiting for something. An apology maybe. That would be typical and Klaus makes sure to scowl at him instead. Eventually Freya collects the apple for him.

She’s his new favorite, Klaus decides. Fierce and awesome. Not one to hold a grudge.

xxx

In hindsight, he should have thrown them in the tub after feeding them.

But, well, live and learn. Or something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Klaus, sure, the witches are the drama queens <3


	2. Chapter 2

After his siblings have been washed, fed and watered Klaus decides to put them to bed.

When it comes down to it, taking care of children isn’t all that different from taking care of horses. And, back in the day, Niklaus had been pretty good with horses. Drawing upon that experience he fetches a comb. 

“Come here,” he commands, patting his knee. Freya comes first, crawling into his lap without a second of hesitation. Yup, she’s definitely his favorite. 

Owing to Esther’s lack of interest or imagination, or some combination of both, all three of them sport the same unflattering bowl cut. He runs his fingers through the wet tangles first, working out the worst of the knots. Then he combs through her hair, his motions firm and purposeful at first only to grow gentle after the first mewled complaints. 

Rebekah’s next. Her hair’s thicker, but far less tangled. She still makes a fuss though, yawning and kicking irritably with her chubby legs. But by the time he’s done, her breathing has slowed and her body’s limp. When he returns her to the floor she protests, clinging to him as if he’s threatened to do dump her into a vat of acid. 

“Your turn,” Klaus says, turning to Elijah. Only Elijah doesn’t come when told. 

In Klaus world – in the world he’d shared with his siblings as a child – the very notion would have been outrageous. When father called, you came. No matter what you were doing, how angry he sounded or whether he held a stick, a whip or a fucking branding iron. The response was so ingrained, so positively Pavlovian, that for the thousand years that father had chased after them Klaus had, on occasion, been forced to remind his treacherous body not to run towards danger as opposed to away from it. 

And now Elijah’s standing, staring down at his feet and not moving a bloody inch. 

“Or you go to bed like that,” Klaus says, plastering on a grin, “and wake up with terrible bed hair and I’ll take lots of pictures to embarrass you with later. That works just as well.” 

xxx 

“Will you tell a story?” Freya asks, her mouth opening wide in a yawn. 

“I don’t know any princess stories,” Klaus lies. He’s intimately familiar with plenty of princess stories. It’s just that they all end with the princess either with her throat torn open or on her back with her legs in the air. He’s admittedly no expert but his inner Elijah’s letting him know in no uncertain terms that neither alternative makes for a good bedtime story. 

“Princesses?” Freya echoes, frowning up at him. “I want tales about battles, with swords and blood and treasures. Like the ones father tell!” 

Klaus has no memories of his father ever telling them stories. Or, well, perhaps there had been a few inspiring parables about wicked children being left to die by in the forest by their wise elders, thus saving their families of the burden of supporting them. Ah, good old Mikael. 

“No stories,” he decides. “Tomorrow I’ll introduce you to Netflix though.” 

Grabbing the blanket he tucks them in, frowning absently as he takes note of the cold feet. They’ll need socks. And maybe shoes too. After all, hardly a week went by in the Mikaelson household without someone breaking a piece of furniture (or more) and, as they’d found out with Hope, splinters posed a real threat to bare human feet. 

“Sing a song, please,” Rebekah pleads, snatching at his arm as he attempts to straighten his back. 

That request at least is familiar. Klaus can remember his mother humming in the evening, the fire dying down to embers and all the kids gathered together in a loose-limbed pile underneath soft furs and thick-woven blankets. 

“Maybe tomorrow,” he hedges, carefully tugging his arm free, “if you’re good.” 

He’s about to leave when he finds that his hand hesitates over the light switch. After a second he realizes what he’s been half-waiting for and peers over at his brother. 

“What about you then?” he asks. “Not gonna ask for anything? A dance perhaps? A glass of water?” 

The girls giggle as if he’s just told the funniest joke. Elijah however just stares back at him. 

Maybe at that age the poor bastard had imprinted on Finn. Like a baby duckling. 

Yeah. That must be it.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know how this happened.
> 
> No, that’s not true. What happened is that I binged-watched the Originals, a billion plot bunnies were born and one demented, megalomaniac bunny mercilessly pushed all its more worthy siblings aside, demanding that I focus all my energy on writing a ridiculous story based on an even more ridiculous premise… 
> 
> So there you go. The “de-aged Mikaelson siblings” story that absolutely no one asked for ever :)


End file.
